For a fleeting instant during Mabella’s little recital Vashti’s eyes had contracted in almost feline fashion, but she replied very suavely:
“I’ll tell Sidney, but, well—you know I never interfere in the slightest with his sermons.”
“Oh, no,” said Mabella with really excessive promptitude; “Oh, no, you wouldn’t dare to do that.”
“Of course not,” said Vashti with so much of acquiescence in her voice that it was almost mocking.
“I know how men think of these things,” continued Mabella with the calm front of one thoroughly acquainted with the world and its ways. “But Sidney is different; he is so good, so gentle, and he seems to know just how one feels”—a reminiscent tone came to Mabella’s voice, she recalled various hours when she had needed comfort sorely and had found it in the gracious promises Sidney held out to his listeners. “It is a great comfort to me,” she went on; “lately it has seemed to me as if he just held up the thoughts of my own heart and showed me where I was strong and where lay my weakness.” Mabella arrested herself with an uncomfortable knowledge that Vashti was smiling, but when Vashti spoke a silky gentleness made her voice suave.
“I will tell Sidney what you say, and no doubt he will preach with a special thought of you and Ann Serrup.”
“Well, I’m glad I spoke of it,” said Mabella; “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”
Vashti continued to smile serenely, as one who recognizes and understands cause for uncertainty. Her gaze was attracted to the window.
Passing in plain view of the window was a most extraordinary figure. A creature with a face blacker than any Ethiopian, surmounted by a shock of fair hair—this individual was further adorned by the skirt of a bright blue dress, which, being made for a grown-up woman, dragged a foot or so on the ground behind; about the neck was a pink silk tie, showing signs of contact with the black, which was evidently not “fast”; above her head she held a parasol bordered with white cotton lace—thus caparisoned Sally paced it forth for the amusement of little Dorothy, who tottered upon her legs by reason of the violence of her laughter. Surrounding the pair, and joining apparently in the amusement, were the two dachshund puppies (Sidney’s latest importation to Dole), the collie, who followed with the sneaking expression of one who enjoys a _risqué_ joke (and yet he could not forbear biting surreptitiously at the dragging flounces as they passed), and little Jim Shinar, who followed in a trance-like state of wide-eyed fascination. He lived nearer to the parsonage than any other child, and between the evil fascination which Sally exerted over him and the dread of finding himself within the gates of a man “who spoke out loud in church,” Jim’s life was oppressed with continual resistance to temptation, but he had frequent falls from grace, for Sally could do more things with her mouth and eyes than eat and see, indeed her capabilities in the line of facial expression were never exhausted, and there was a weirdness about her grimaces which fascinated older children than poor round-faced little Jim.